Perfect Intimacy
by Abisian
Summary: "They were perfect foils for each other. They were perfect." Olivier likes a hands-on approach to her studying.


A/N: YALL. This was supposed to be a fluff piece. Pure, unadulterated fluff. Somehow it turned smutty. I don't even know what happened. There is so much sexual tension between them when I write that apparently I JUST CAN'T HELP MYSELF.

Read and review, lovelies; read and review. Enjoy.

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**Perfect Intimacy**

Olivier ran her finger down the edge of her notebook, studying the mess of lines sketched across the page. She glanced up at her unwitting model sprawled across the bed, comparing the lines of his well-muscled back to the ones she'd drawn. Adjusting her bare legs in the chair—her skin stuck uncomfortably to the cloth—she flattened her sketchbook on her knee and touched her pencil to the paper once again.

She traced over her sketch more assuredly, drawing bold lines along his defined shoulders and back. She tucked her hair behind her ear idly before tackling the place where his automail joined his shoulder. She lovingly caressed the metal of his automail with the tip of her pencil, expertly drawing the contours as if she'd done it a million times before.

His automail arm was tucked under her pillow, cradling it against his face. As she finished drawing his arm, her pencil wandered up to his face.

Olivier sat there, pencil poised to uncover the strong line of his jaw, and her eyes caught his staring back at her. He smiled sleepily at her, wide mouth cutting a content path across his face. His smiles were infectious to her; she couldn't help but lift the corner of her mouth in return.

Buccaneer lifted himself into a sitting position, one bare leg hanging over the bed. Olivier let her eyes wander shamelessly up his muscular leg to his waist, where her white bedsheet barely concealed what was beneath. Buccaneer gave her a knowing grin.

"If you wanted me to model, all you had to do was ask." He leaned back on his hands, allowing the sheet to slip a little further down into his lap. Olivier's gaze traced the contours of his hips, where the bones there pointed down to a dark smattering of curls. Buccaneer watched her watching him, a challenge in his eyes.

Olivier snapped her little notebook closed and rested it and her pencil on the arm of her chair. She unfolded her long legs from beneath her and stood. Buccaneer's eyes roamed her body, tracing invisible lines of his own across the curves of her calves, her thighs, her ass; the hourglass figure of her waist and the curving expanse of her chest. He drank her in, like a man dying of thirst.

"I'll need to study my model if I am to draw him," she told him. His grin widened as she stepped between his legs and leaned a hand on his thigh. She rested her knee on the mattress and marveled for a moment, as always, at how tiny her hand looked against his muscular body.

"You like a hands-on approach, do you?" he asked as her hand swept away the bedsheet, exposing what lay beneath those dark curls. Olivier gave a wicked smile as she stroked his length, passing her hand across him as she moved to straddle him.

"Would you prefer it any other way?"

Buccaneer growled and gripped her hip possessively, sending a pleasurable shiver down her spine. Olivier groaned at the familiar feeling of his large, warm palm digging into her soft flesh, fingertips resting close to her ass.

"I'll take that as a no." Her chuckle was deep, throaty, almost breathless.

Buccaneer supported the both of them easily with his automail arm. Olivier leaned over him, hands resting against his shoulders. Her hair had fallen forward, framing their faces in a curtain of spun gold. He felt the tips of it tickling the skin of his chest, and he moved his hand from her hip to catch a lock between his fingers.

Buccaneer might be a gruff man, but he could appreciate beauty when he saw it. Olivier's hair was a thing of beauty. It was damn near the only sign of femininity she allowed herself. Where most of the military women he'd met had worn their hair contained, short, or shorn, Olivier wore hers free and flowing. It shone like starlight when she stood on the fort wall with naught but the sun to challenge its brightness. It felt like silk between his fingertips when they were alone and she allowed him the simple pleasure of touching her.

Where Buccaneer was dark, Olivier was bright. Where she was tough, he was a softie. Where he was a fun-loving jokester, she was the stern ice queen. They were perfect foils for each other.

They were perfect.

Buccaneer slipped his hand up to cradle the back of her head and pulled her toward him. Her breasts touched his chest and her hair caressed his cheek and her lips were warm and pliant on his. He couldn't remember the first time he had kissed Major General Armstrong, but he remembered thinking that he didn't want it to be the last. She kissed like a woman in need, and he was only too willing to fulfill it.

She pulled away from him, tongue running slowly across her plump lips as she gazed at him with those half-lidded ice-colored eyes. The flush of desire that Buccaneer liked so much had spread its way across her collarbone and into her cheeks. He felt the slick evidence of her desire teasing him where they were nearly joined. All he had to do was flex his hips—

"Say it," she demanded softly. Her lips were mere millimeters from his—a flick of the tongue and he could taste her. Instead he complied with her request.

"Mira," he murmured against her lips, his words melting into a searing kiss. She'd never allowed anyone else to call her Mira; even then Buccaneer was only allowed to utter it in their most intimate of moments. Olivier sighed into their kiss, grinding against him, hips tantalizing, teasing, as he whispered her name against her skin.

"Mira, Mira, perfect Mira—"

Buccaneer reached up with his automail hand to grip her ass and together they tumbled against Olivier's pillows, joined at last. With deft precision, Buccaneer flipped them so that Olivier was beneath him. She made no protest—rare, considering her desire to be in control—and he hiked her leg up around his waist.

He trailed his metallic fingers down the back of her thigh, mourning his inability to really feel her warm skin. He rocked against her, drawing pleasured grunts and sighs, as he brought his real hand—flesh and bone and nerves and warmth—to the apex of her thighs.

Buccaneer could not draw her as she had drawn him, but he could draw such delicious, pleasured sounds from her.

And now, it was his turn to study her.


End file.
